Memoria Aeternus
by Nagareboshi Star
Summary: It all began with a simple riddle written on a blackboard, intricate enough to have the young, prodigious Hershel Layton brooding over it for too long. It continued until it came to be a vital part of his daily routine, yet it ended with a meeting. A meeting that he would never forget; for it was, in all reality, the real beginning. Clershel One-shot.


_**A/N:** This had to be. After completing Professor Layton and the Unwound Future, my heart was brimming with feels. The last two scenes really had me quite squeaking, even though I kind of expected it. So here is a oneshot wherein I present to you the first meeting of our dear Hershel and Claire. Please read the bottom notes as I will be explaining a few things there._

 _I hope my characters don't seem TOO out of place, I have only played two Layton games so far and know most other facts from other sources. Of course do I plan to play the other games at some point, so I will also get a more detailed insight on younger Layton then; but here I have, well, altered his personality slightly, because he is still to become the Layton we so love._

 _Anyway, enough talking, enjoy!_

 _ **P.S.:** The image cover is from  pinterest, I find it absolutely beautiful, the title is Latin for "eternal memory" and, to anyone who wants some nice music whilst reading this, I recommend two tracks: **Thomas Bergersen - Autumn Love** and **Jónsi - We bought a Zoo**. Both are quite beautiful and reflect the atmosphere pretty well, for I wrote this shot to those tracks :)_

* * *

 **Memoria Aeternus**

He stood in front of the scratched board, contemplating deeply as he observed the scrawly white writing; the neat, fragmentary swings and curls that formulated what was, most evidently, a puzzle.

He did not know who had scribbled it down, this puzzle, but it was there, and ever one for mind-teasing questions (most often, however, concerning historical matters), he stood in a pondering manner as he tried to figure out the solution. It was a simple riddle, formulated in the most traditional of ways, with the word ' _answer_ ' and a colon written underneath in expectation. Whoever had composed it was obviously determined to return and see if someone had solved it.

" _He who makes it, does not want it..."_

Hershel liked the challenge. He was in his third semester of archaeology under the intriguing tutelage of Dr. Schrader, having finally discovered a passion for what was ancient and nearly forgotten. His life felt safer all of a sudden; more secure and precise, as if it were following a specific path which would ultimately lead Hershel to a goal full of glory or generally, success. He liked success. Hence his desire to solve the riddle.

"Hershel, we're going 'round the corner to the pub to cool off for the day, wanna join?"

Gradually, the young man twisted his head to the side, discovering a fellow student peaking his head inside the seminar room he stood in. Hershel made him out to be John; someone he occasionally talked to, but did not know to a great extent. He considered the invitation at first, but knowing he would need a little longer with the puzzle at hand, shook his head with a gentle smile.

"No thanks, I've still got some things to do."

Irked by that, John entered the room, curiosity demanding him to know what was so compelling that Hershel decided to stand and stare at it. Once he scanned over the riddle on the board, raising an eyebrow in confusion, he turned back to his friend, "What's that?"

"A riddle, I'd say."

"I get _that_. I mean why's it on here? Did Schrader write that down?"

A little vexed at the lack of respect John provided, but deciding to be ignorant in order to avoid an argument, Hershel briefly closed his eyes before speaking up, "No, I highly doubt that. Schrader does not write his _i's_ and _w's_ like that, and in general would not leave riddles on a board for a stranger to answer. He would rather ask a student during lesson."

"Maybe he did and they answered it verbally or something."

Once more the archaeology student shook his head, "Apart from all that, Dr. Schrader does not teach in this section of the university."

"Oh..." feeling like a dunce, John quieted down, pretending for a moment to share the interest Hershel obviously had to offer for the superfluous words. Just as he was about to take his leave, a new voice piped up.

"Hershel! Did you hear about the dissertation Cedric-" the newcomer hesitated with his words, obviously surprised to find both John and Hershel standing in front of the black board of room C144 and staring at it in concentration; at least the latter did, the former seemed thoroughly bored.

"Hey Clark, are you coming to the pub too?" The man by the name of Clark nodded briefly, before he stepped next to his friend.

"What's up, Hershel?" fleetingly reading the lines presented to them, Clark's eyebrows rose slightly, "Found a puzzle to your liking?"

"Something like that," there was a curt pause filled with empty silence, before Hershel turned to Clark, "I won't join you to the pub, but I'll catch up with you guys tomorrow."

Earning a friendly pat on the back, Clark grinned at his fellow student, shaking his head in a somewhat sympathizing way, "You are not to be bested, Hershel; you have always preferred intellect over a glass of beer." Turning to leave, he grabbed John by the shoulder and tore him along, "Come on, John, we have some alcohol waiting for us."

Staggering slightly, John followed Clark out of the room, leaving the dark-eyed man to consider his riddle some more.

Hershel was more than relieved to have his quietude back, for the presence of people such as Clark made him sometimes a little nervous. Placing a finger onto his philtrum whilst supporting his elbow with the other hand, he slightly angled his head.

" _He who carries it, does not keep it."_

His eyes crinkled a little.

" _He who buys it, does not need it."_

Gradually, his right foot began to tap at a steady pace.

" _He who has it, does not know it."_

All of a sudden, Hershel felt as if a light had been switched on within the dark cavern of his thoughts. Everything became clear and logical, and the brief idea that had crossed his mind so suddenly gained substance and reason. With eagerness and pride, he picked up the minuscule piece of chalk, scribbling down the appropriate response.

* * *

When he returned the next day to see if the riddle was still there; or if whoever had written it maybe had left behind some message for him in return to his solving the mystery, Hershel had to discover that the board had been cleaned and a new, quizzical sentence now took up the space of the chalky area.

Slightly surprised, but also somewhat amused, he walked over and read the new lines written with the same scrawl as before.

"Most definitely a male," Hershel surmised as he chuckled lightly, "no one else would have such an atrocious handwriting." Once more he observed the words written and contemplated their meaning, ultimately smiling with joy when he realised that this one had not taken him quite as long to solve as the previous one.

Again he wrote down his answer into the adequate space provided, deciding to linger a little within the room and see if the questioner would maybe appear so that he could get a good glance at the guy. He was interested in knowing who would randomly write down a riddle onto the board and then wait for some stranger to answer it. Hershel was sure that, whoever the person was, would most likely also want to know who had answered his previous puzzle. There was bound to be mutual interest.

Yet the quarter hour that passed, soon morphing into half an hour and then a full one proved to be a little tiresome for the student to bear, who, unlike most of his companions, did _not_ take his courses all too lightly. He had a lot of work to complete and three essays to hand in by Monday. Sighing with slight disappointment, Hershel unfolded his arms, standing up from his spot by the window and leaving the room to silence.

* * *

It was no surprise that the man returned right on the next day, hoping for an answer from the questioner this time round, but in all actuality expecting a third riddle to be present on the board. Indeed, the expectations won and Hershel was met with another enigma formed out of quizzical words that curled to describe an image not quite clear.

He sighed, his archaeology book forgotten as he laid it down, positioning himself comfortably in front of the smeared board and analysing the next lines. The theme of these riddles seemed a little sorrowful; contemplative, for sure, concerning the deeper meanings of life, but nonetheless intriguing. Once more did he grab the piece of chalk and write down his answer.

This little _ritual_ continued for what first came to be a week, then two, and soon a month had passed. Each time, Hershel decided to wait on the person who liked to spend every day writing down a new puzzle, yet no matter how many hours he intended to invest; not even when he sat down doing his archaeology work for the next day then and there, easily wasting five consecutive hours, did his querier appear.

"He must come in the mornings when I have my history lectures." He concluded, having thus entertained the thought of skipping a session in order to have a chance at meeting the intriguing personality responsible for these mind-games, yet he knew that it would be unwise. His absence would not go unnoticed, which would earn him strong criticism. This was university, not school, and decisions had to be made with more precaution. Hershel simply hoped he would come at some point in the afternoon, anyway, when he himself sat and waited.

* * *

The puzzles began to change.

They suddenly had components of maths and science within them, of imagery that was twisted, of stories that had a catch to them. Mere words no longer sufficed to tease Hershel's brain; he found a wide variety of complex puzzles facing him every week, with no note left behind for him after he had solved them; with no assurance that what he had surmised was right, and especially: with no hint of whom he was to imagine _behind_ these enigmatic words.

He would be lying had he claimed not to be frustrated. His curiosity began to bully his brain, and suddenly his mind's eye painted a vivid picture, or rather _pictures_ , of the possible appearance and stance of the questioner, each more intriguing than the other. He had the inexplicable feeling that, whoever it was, he would find a dear friend in him; someone who understood his inner complexities and did not see the world as a mere façade, nor accepted what was supposed to be reality. Already his thoughts were pondering through the possible personality traits of this fellow student; were visualising a human being who fit the background story he obviously possessed. He gave hints in his puzzles, even if they were coincidental, or rather, subconscious.

Day after day passed, and suddenly Hershel began to fear that he might just never meet the person in question. For when he arrived on the fourth morning of the sixth week in the room that he began to personally dub as the _enigma_ _room_ , the board was blank.

Some remnants of chemical formulae were left at the edges, written neatly in a smaller handwriting; one much more feminine. The young archaeologists heart began to sink at an atrocious speed, his hands slightly clammy. Why was there no quiz today? Had something maybe occurred; had his significant opposite maybe been delayed?

Breathing in deeply, Hershel decided to wait again. He sat down by the scratched table next to the open window, gazing outside onto the edge of a forest. Maybe this time, if he did wait a little longer, he would come...

Yet seconds quickly ticked by to form minutes, which ran onto hours and hours of _pointless_ waiting.

The riddle-writer did not come.

Defeatedly, Hershel left, deciding that maybe, tomorrow, he would return; that then he would see the board once more covered in the now so familiar scrawl. It was only _one_ day; maybe he had run out of puzzles to write down? Or he suffered from sickness; a cold, for example, or had important, urging exams to face and needed the time to study instead of idling around in C144.

Yet the small slither of fear within Hershel that told him the time for puzzles was over began to grow. The following five days, nothing was to be found on the dark board except for bits and pieces from the lecture before. No enigmatic words challengingly encountered him, no message to explain the absence, _nothing_.

And each new day bought further discouragement.

After two weeks it felt as if it all had just been an illusion, or a memory from the deepest past. Hershel did not understand his sentiments; why he felt let down when there never had been any obligation in any way. But he _did_.

There was a newly settled silence within the realm of his mind; a stillness that simply did not feel right, and which he wanted to get rid of.

* * *

As it does, life continues; ignorance soon settles back in and everything seems to fall back into the place it belongs into. There was a routine Hershel began to live by; one he accepted, one he tolerated, but not one he particularly _liked._ Courses had exams, exams demanded revision and studying; others needed essays and term papers. He would join his fellow students on their way to the pub on a Friday afternoon, and he would occasionally meet them elsewhere, too. Some place that was not strictly the campus of Gressenheller University.

Hershel used the vastness of his intellect no longer to see behind enigmatic riddles but to consume and understand the greatness of history and archaeology. He had decided that dwelling on such mysteries as who his significant opposite could possibly be would be a waste of time; if a great mind like that was around, and it was not some lecturer who actually had better things to do than talk to Hershel, then they would meet sooner or later.

The dark-eyed man was actually quite convinced that it was _not_ a lecturer. No university staff would waste their time writing down puzzles on a board every day. They were more likely all too busy being the pretentious celebrities they saw in themselves. It _had_ to be a student.

Hershel had tried figuring out some time before what courses were held in room C144, where he had a seminar in ancient history. But Gressenheller was grand, his time limited, his patience thin (or rather that of the responsible staff), and results too rare. He had given up. There would always be that _what if_ question, but it was buried underneath thick books concerning the ancient Aztec and Egyptian mythologies.

So when one particular evening Hershel trudged across the campus; the neatly trimmed grass covered in mud and grime from the drenching rain that London saw too often, he never expected to find an answer to all of his long-lasting questions.

Or to just _one_ question.

He had opened a back door to a neighbouring building where had forgotten a few of his notes. He guessed that due to the billowing breeze that had rudely entered through the window earlier that day, they had scattered onto the floor. It had been a sudden gust of spring air which had decided to crawl through his written work and bring disorganisation along, and Hershel, who had been in a rush anyway after realising the time, did not pay closer attention to the stone floor underneath his feet, or he would have realised that the important diagrams he would need to analyse for his exam the next day were missing.

He was slightly annoyed, yet seemed composed on the outside, as he clicked the door open, thankful that he was capable of entering despite the late hour. The rain had drenched his clothing, his hair dripping slightly and his shoes being soggy and soiled. His hand quickly found the light switch at the side, the clinking electronic doing its work as he discovered what he had been searching for with alleviation. But just as he bent down to pick up the scribbled pieces of still paper, another _'tink tink'_ echoed above and the lights went out, leaving Hershel to be enwrapped by darkness.

He sighed lengthily, grasping the sheets and straightening himself when he realised a different source of light entering his field of vision.

"Huh?" He averted his gaze towards the window, seeing twenty metres ahead what was a dim stream of light coming from one of the seminar rooms.

Upon closer contemplation, Hershel realised it was not just _any_ room, but the very _enigma_ _room_ he had spent too much time inside of. His heart made an involuntary jolt as he gazed several silent seconds ahead, pondering over the different reasons for there still being illumination. The hour was much too late for there to be any cleaning staff about. Maybe a professor...? Or...

Discarding the thought abruptly, Hershel made his way out of the side-building and left across the patchy campus field. He was determined to ignore the fact that the source of light could mean that a, to him, eminent personality was possibly within the room, currently writing down another puzzle.

It had not happened in _five_ weeks, it would not happen _now_. Yet his eagerness to know; to possess _certainty_ , was beginning to overwhelm his determination. Hershel caved. His feet abruptly approached the dim light, which became brighter and brighter and soon nearly blinded him. He felt ridiculous when his hand began to tremble ever so delicately, just before he was about to open the glass door towards the room.

Hershel entered as silently as his water-wetted state allowed him to be, his heart palpitating with eager thrums as he peeked around the corner, the door closed inaudibly behind him. He could feel the vibrations of his oxygen-pumping organ within the cavern of his mouth, and felt a slight tinge at his cheeks. He was panting.

The clacking of chalk against board echoed throughout the room, and Layton was met with the view of the back of a person totally strange to him. Copper hair danced past her shoulders in cascading waves, tied together loosely near the bottom. She wore a white lab-coat, her shoes were just as muddied as his, and she had not realised another presence was currently mere feet away from her.

There was a sigh of relief brushing out of his chest, which Hershel had not even realised to have held. With gradual steps, he approached, halting behind the other student who was a good head smaller than him.

"Why coffin?" He questioned with a composedness he was nearly proud of.

The woman flinched at the sudden sound of a voice, the chalk clattering to the floor and splitting unequally into two. She turned around abruptly, and Hershel was faced with a soft, rounded countenance and large, dark eyes hidden behind brittle glasses. An astray lock of rebellious titian hair framed the right side of her visage.

Hershel tried not to widen his eyes or to present her with astonishment; he attempted to stay neutral, composed, _Hershel_.

"P-Pardon?" She questioned in a soft utterance.

"Coffin. Your first riddle. The answer was a coffin." She did not respond to him, only stood and stared, silent breaths leaving past her lips. Hershel took the chance to approach some more and speak up again, "I surmised from the riddle that you must have experienced a form of loss; most certainly of someone very dear. When I came afterwards, I encountered all sorts of philosophical riddles that could easily be turned into proverbs about life. I guess it was your way of questioning life itself, for it seemed so fickle and volatile that it made no sense to you. When you then wrote down all these scientific puzzles that required more straightforward, logical thinking, I could tell you had lost yourself in the embrace of reality. As long as it was scientifically proved, it was real, and it could not be torn away from you no matter what happened; not even when death arrived."

He was directly opposite of her now, staring down the bridge of his nose at her soft complexion, silent as the night.

"You figured that out through my puzzles?" She finally breathed, blinking and moving again as if she were a robot and someone had rewound the mechanism.

"I assumed it. Am I right?"

A sudden tender smile graced her lips; one that made Hershel's cheeks heat up in a way completely unfamiliar to him. He began to feel nervous again.

"Yes you are. With everything, by the way." she turned back to the half-finished enigma on the board, scanning over what she had already jotted down, "I was quite impressed to discover that someone had actually solved them."

"They were your way of crying out for attention, am I right? Your silent form of communication."

The woman briefly shut her eyes, laughing lightly, "You have me laid out bare too easily, I feel naïve and transparent now."

"You should not. I doubt anyone else got to see what I figured out, and honestly, it took me quite a while. I was surprised to find the riddles suddenly gone, though."

She turned to gaze at him intently, obviously analysing his facial features and trying to find the emotions hidden within them, "I'm sorry. I had been away. A trip to a science laboratory in a town nearby; it was part of a facility belong to a huge university so that I decided to stay a little longer. They have intriguing experiments on the run over there." She could tell the relief with which he gazed on and decided to smile herself.

He shook his head, smiling still, "You study physics, don't you?"

"You _still_ make me feel like an open book."

"Maybe you are one to me. Why physics?"

Tipping her head lightly to the side, she frowned at him, "Because it interests me? Or does it seem so out of place for a woman to study physics?"

"No, it does not, but I have the feeling that the coffin has something to do with it."

she hitched, her eyes sparkling with distant remnants of tears once shed, before she cast her eyes towards the ground. After a long hesitation, she decided to speak, "My...father. He used to read me physics books when I was a child. He...passed away four months ago."

"I understand..." He could have spoken his condolences, but Hershel knew that those were often-times fake. They were nothing but a formality looked upon with rightness, even though their significance was one that could never be entirely understood by the speaker. How could you feel sympathy when you did not understand the entire dynamic of the relation? And how could you feel sympathy, when, most times, it was a form of pity no one desired?

The copper-haired scientist seemed to understand Hershel's train of thoughts without needing to inquire. Through his countenance she deduced his opinion and saw in it truth and agreement. Suddenly, the young archaeology student felt just as transparent as she had claimed to be mere seconds ago.

Nonetheless, she wanted to get out of the mental corner she felt herself being pressed into, "Would a gentleman not wish his condolences?"

"Huh?" He was indeed taken aback by that, "A gentleman?"

"Well, yes, or are you not one?"

"I...have never seen myself as such."

"Why not?"

He was irked; what was she after? It seemed random to him, out of place. Was that the whole point of it?

"I...don't know."

She giggled at that, "A Londoner would want to be a gentleman, I would suppose. Or at least someone like you."

"Like me?"

"You solve puzzles by strangers and figure out people without having even met them once."

"I only ever figured out _you_."

"It does not change the facts, though."

"What does that have to do with a gentleman?" He creased a quizzical eyebrow.

"I'm not sure..." she shrugged nonchalantly, smiling nonetheless, "I guess I just want to tease you."

Blushing upon her honest words, Hershel blinked twice and began scratching the back of his neck.

"Am I making you nervous?" She continued her prodding, the smile not leaving her lips.

"I was nervous even before we met."

"How come?"

"I doubt you need an answer to that."

A mutual understanding passed between them; between their eyes as they gazed with caution at one another.

"You are indeed a very intriguing person, Hershel Layton." Her fingers graced her lips and she laughed delicately.

"H-How come you know my name?" His cheeks were still burning.

"You are famous in Gressenheller, Mr. Layton, as the young prodigy who is being taught by none other than Dr. Schrader himself. That man does not take anyone as his student."

"Please...call me Hershel, we are fellow students, after all." he murmured, feeling abashed.

"As you wish, Hershel." He could not help his cheeks turn an even _more_ brilliant vermilion when he heard the softness with which she uttered his name. It felt very...intimate.

"You seem to me to be just as intricate as you are transparent." He smiled back at her, eyes creasing lightly.

"Is that so?" There was surprise in her tone, "Please, do elaborate, Hershel."

His heart tugged lightly, which confused the dark-eyed man who could simply not explain the significance behind that action, "Well...I might already know some things about you, but I have the feeling that there is a lot more you could tell me about yourself."

"What makes you believe that?" Her large oculars observed him curiously as he did his best not to stutter.

He smiled, leaning forward slightly, "I believed you to be a man at first. I was wrong."

Hershel was responded with a few blinks of her eyes, before she burst out laughing with tear-bringing joy, "Is that so? I take it you are referring to my writing."

He felt somehow embarrassed, once more scratching the nape of his neck as his face brightened, "W-Well yes..."

"I'm not surprised; I have often been told to possess the terrible scrawl of a male doctor." She shrugged after having recovered from her laughing-fit, "I guess it is because I learnt writing from my father."

"That explains."

She blushed herself now, her hand lingering about her lips, "Is it that terrible?" She seemed to be pondering.

"N-Not at all!" Hershel tried not to stumble too much over his words as he also tried not to insult her by accident, "I mean, it's legible; _I_ can read it, after all."

She giggled some more, "I'll have to take you to my professor then, he can't read my essays and is complaining all the time."

"I would not mind." she was surprised at his quick and curt response, "I mean, I would not mind reading your essays. Nor explaining them to the professor."

Folding her hands neatly in front of her body, she gazed at him openly, "Does that mean you are interesting in physics?"

"I am interested in many things, but especially in what _you_ do, because someone who thinks up such intelligent enigmas every day must be an intriguing student."

Once more she smiled at him, glee overriding the primary sorrow that had existed before; the slight melancholy in which she had lived not too long ago, before they had met, "Then you will have to come see me at the physics laboratory tomorrow so I can show you."

It was a straightforward invitation, and one Hershel did not want to miss out on, "I guess I will." He chuckled.

"Good! I will expect you there then, dear Hershel."

"I will definitely come. But one thing," He raised his finger questioningly, and she tilted her head, awaiting his inquiry, "I do not know your name yet."

With a sincere laugh and a smile as well as a rekindled sparkle in her eyes, she stared into his obsidian oculars, whispering the name that he was to remember for all eternity within the most intimate chambers of his heart; one he held more dear than most any other, for it would always remind him of the beautiful time they had had together, and of their unwound future.

"Claire."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Here it ends, and I must admit it makes me all emotional again. As you can tell, the last phrase is more or less taken from the third game, which is the last thing Claire says to Layton before she departs. I found it all too fitting to end it here. I was, however, not all too confident with the development of their interaction, although after reading it again and editing it, I decided it was the best I could make out of it._

 _I used "Hershel" instead of "Layton", because he is not quite "Layton" yet, if you get my drift. He is a younger version, his personality slightly altered and with no real path set for him. He thinks he knows what he wants, but we all know it changed the moment he met Claire, who is to be said to have set him on his actual path. I found it important to use his first name._

 _The riddle, for anyone who is interested, is from a fairytale I saw a while back, I believe if you research it something should pop up. If you want me to explain it, I shall gladly do so._

 _Albeit not knowing much details about Clark, I wanted to involve him so that I only had to create one fictional character, namely John. Claire's "terrible handwriting" and the relationship/loss of her father are, of course, also fictional attributes, but I'm sure you have realised that. (Irony: I talk about fictional aspects when, in all reality, everything is fictional. Ha...)  
_

 _Nonetheless I hope you have sincerely enjoyed this shot and are as kind to leave behind a review :) It would be really great! Thank you~~_


End file.
